Turns, She Takes Control

Turns

You always start.

In the shower, before the water's even warm -- your chest against my back, your mouth at the back of my neck, your lips nibbling until my knees go soft. Your hands come around my front, slick with soap, and spread me open under the water. Two fingers find my clit and it jumps under them -- swollen already, peeking out of its hood, so sensitive the first touch makes me hiss and rock up onto my toes.

You circle it slow. Just the edges, then a flat press, then long drags down and back up my engorgement, and my hips start chasing your hand, water sluicing between us. Your other hand climbs to my breast, palm dragging over the nipple, then fingers pinching, rolling, pulling it into a stiff aching peak. You switch, do it to the other, back and forth, until both nipples are hard enough to hurt and I'm pushing back against your cock where it presses into my hip -- thick, hot, half-hard, twitching against my ass.

You work my clit from tight circles around the sensitive nub to delicious strokes along the hood ridge until my breath goes short and my thighs start to tremble. My pussy is slick, dripping, clenching on nothing. You slide one finger down through the wet -- and the sound it makes is obscene -- and push it inside me. My walls flutter and grip, tight and swollen around you. You add another finger, then curl them up, press the spongy front wall, finding pressure that builds fast, low and heavy and hot, the feeling right before the fall.

I'm right there. Right at the edge of it.

And I catch your wrist and pull your hand away.

You laugh against my ear. "There she goes."

"Bed," I say. "I've got plans for you."

You think it's your turn next -- you always think that -- so you follow me out, dry off fast, and reach for me. I push you down onto the sheets and climb over you before you get a hand on anything.

"Stay," I say.

And you stay.

Because tonight I want to take you apart. It's my favorite thing to do to you and I've never told you so -- better than being on the receiving end, better than anything.

You're already hard. Thick, flushed dark at the head, veins standing along the shaft, twitching up against your stomach, pre-cum beading at the slit and slicking the head. I take my time.

I start at your throat, your collarbone, your chest. And I take one nipple in my mouth -- suck it hard, flick it with my tongue, bite down just shy of pain -- and you arch off the mattress and swear. I do the other, roll it between my teeth, pull it, until both are stiff and red and standing up and you're breathing through your nose.

"You're going to kill me," you say.

"Probably."

Then I take your cock in my mouth. At first just swirling the tip, licking the sensitive ridge - watching your breathing grow irregular.

Then the first long pull down your length makes your whole body go taut -- the taste of you, the salt of pre-cum, the smell of skin and soap. I keep it slow: tongue flat along the underside, hand working the base, taking you deep until the head nudges my throat and then backing off, over and over. I feel you swell on my tongue, feel the veins jump, feel your whole cock pulse with your heartbeat. Your hand finds my hair and holds on.

"God. That's--"

I pull off. Just like that. And watch you.

You open your eyes, wrecked already, and look down at me. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

I work you with my hand next -- slow and tight, thumb dragging the slick underside, my mouth at your hip. I bring you right up to the lip of it: thighs tight, balls drawn up, breath ragged, hips tilting up to chase my fist. And then I let go, and blow a slow stream of cool air across your swollen head just to watch you flinch.

You make a sound like a man betrayed.

"I hate you," you say.

"You love me."

Then I climb up and straddle your hips -- no penetration, just the wet heat of my pussy pressed along your shaft. I rock. I tease your head with my wetness, so close but not. Slow drags, my clit riding the whole length of you, slicking you with every pass, and you grab my hips and try to pull me down onto you and I don't let you. I just keep moving, grinding my swollen clit along your cock until your head tips back and your teeth grit and your hands fist white in the sheets.

Then I lift off. Barely. Just enough that you feel the loss of it.

"Fuck," you say, low. "Fuck."

And because you're generous even wrecked -- or because you want to make me lose my nerve -- you turn the tables. You catch my waist and roll me under you, and before I can stop you your mouth is between my legs.

And god, you're good at it. Long flat strokes from my entrance up over my clit, humming so it buzzes through my whole pelvis, then two fingers pushing inside me, curling up, stroking that swollen spot on the front wall with come-hither pressure until my hips lift off the bed. Your thumb finds my clit, circles tight, and my pussy grips your fingers and flutters and gets so wet it runs down onto the sheets.

"Close," I gasp.

And I shove your head away.

You lift up, mouth slick, grinning. "Now who's--"

"Shut up." I'm breathing hard, two edges deep and already losing it. "On your back."

You lie back. You're still so close you're shaking -- cock slick and jumping against your stomach, head dark and glistening -- and when I straddle you and sink down in one slow slide, you groan like it hurts.

The fullness is instant and catches us both breathless. For a moment our eyes meet, a deep gaze and moment of extreme intimacy. I'm tingling and you are practically shaking. The depth of our connection, the depth of your cock inside of me, is pushing me higher and farther - deeper and fuller. I can see your fully and your eyes tell me that you are completely with me. The love and exquisite sensations are overwhelming. I have to breathe through it or it'll take me right there.

"Don't move," I say.

And you don't. You grip the sheets and let me work.

I ride you. Long rolls, grinding down, taking you as deep as I can and squeezing on every stroke, my clit dragging along the base of you with every pass. You're barely holding on -- jaw tight, eyes glassy, hands fisted in the sheets -- and I know that face better than my own. I've known it since the first year. So I slow down on purpose, deep grinds, feeling your cock pulse inside me, feeling the veins drag, until you're gasping under me.

"Fuck," you grit out. "Fuck, I'm--"

"Then come."

And you shatter, falling apart completely.

Your back comes off the bed and you make that sound you don't make any other time -- raw, wrecked -- and then you're pulsing, jerking, kicking inside me, hot ropes of cum flooding deep, and I feel every throb of your cock against my front wall as you empty yourself. I ride you through it, slow now, milking it, my pussy clenching in long waves around your shaft, watching you come undone. You keep twitching and emptying until you finally go limp, chest heaving, arm thrown over your eyes, laughing.

"God, you are amazing" you manage.

I stay on top of you a while, savoring the fullness, the slick heat of you inside me, the ache of my own unspent need -- two edges deep, full of love but also a pulsing hunger. Then you catch my wrist when I move and pull me down flat onto your chest.

And this is the part I love most.

You hold me against your heartbeat, one hand smoothing slow circles down my back, the other in my hair. You kiss my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth. Your cum leaks out of me onto your thigh and neither of us cares. We just breathe together in the quiet. You tell me, low, that watching me take you apart was the hottest thing you've seen all year, and I laugh into your neck and call you a liar.

We lie there a long time. You softening against my hip, me still humming and unfinished, your hands wandering over me slow, like you're memorizing the shape of me. And slowly, without either of us saying it, the wandering turns purposeful. Your fingers find me wet and open, still swollen, still slick. You hum.

"You haven't come," you say. Not a question.

"I know."

So you roll me onto my back -- gentle this time -- and take your turn back.

You kiss down my stomach, unhurried, the way you do when the pressure's off: warm mouth, grazing teeth, hands spread over my hips like you're holding me in place for your own enjoyment. You suck my nipples until they're stiff and aching and standing up again. You bite the soft inside of my thigh. You lick one slow line up my slit, root to clit, and groan at the taste of yourself still mixed with me.

Then you reach into the drawer.

The dildo is thick and lifelike -- veined, a broad flared head, a perfect silicone cast of you at your hardest. You warm it in your palm. You press the head to my entrance, slick with everything, and push it in slow, watching my face the whole way.

The fullness is immediate and obscene. The broad head stretches me, drags along the front wall, presses my swollen G-spot exactly right, and I'm so worked up and tender after a whole night of holding off that it pulls a sound out of me I didn't plan on. You settle beside me, close, one arm under my neck so I can lean into your chest, and start to work it -- deep, steady thrusts, angled up, the veined shaft dragging over that spot with every pass.

Your other hand finds my clit. Tight, wet circles, firm and patient, matching the rhythm of the dildo, and my clit is so swollen and sensitive by now that every circle makes my hips jerk.

"That's it," you murmur against my hair. "You've been holding this all night. Let it go."

It's the tenderness that does it as much as the pressure -- the way you're wrapped around me, the way you watch me like I matter more than the orgasm, the way you say my name low. Your cum leaks out around the dildo with every thrust and you don't care; you just keep going, keep circling, keep telling me how beautiful I look.

"Look at me," you say. "I want to see you fully, see you come undone."

So I do. After a whole night of holding it off, it comes up through me like a rising wave -- building, building, my G-spot aching and throbbing with every thrust, my clit burning under your fingers, my nipples hard and untouched -- and then it breaks, huge and rolling, pulling a long raw cry out of me. My back arches off the bed. My pussy clamps down on the replica of your cock in rhythmic, milking contractions that go on and on, fluttering and gripping and squeezing, and you keep working it, easing off as I get too sensitive, riding it out with me until I'm whimpering and trembling and laughing all at once.

When I finally go limp, you ease the dildo out and set it aside, then gather me against your chest. Your heartbeat under my ear. Your arms all the way around me. You kiss my sweaty hair, my closed eyelids, the bridge of my nose -- unhurried, like there's nowhere else in the world you need to be.

"You can't be more sexy or gorgeous?" you say, soft.

I can't speak. So I nod against your chest, and you hold me tighter, and the last thing I remember is your hand, slow and steady, smoothing down my back until the shaking stops.